


weight

by Graysworks



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Drabble, M/M, Missing Scene, Post s2 finale, keith pov, more cringe angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-13
Updated: 2018-02-13
Packaged: 2019-03-17 14:09:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13660608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Graysworks/pseuds/Graysworks
Summary: pt 2 of 'tap out'| And it's what he keeps getting caught on; how those hands that would push and shove and wreak havoc to keep him safe are the same ones that cradled his face nights before, when he was a mess of bruises and broken skin andWe're not soldiers Shiro, I'm not asoldier.





	weight

**Author's Note:**

> _I know you want me_  
>  But I've come close enough for now  
> Oh God, you haunt me  
> I'm scared you'll leave me in the ground
> 
>  
> 
> -Weight, Crywolf

_I'm right here._

He's never been grateful for the freezing sink water before, but it becomes enough to distract, and that's preferable. That's _useful._

_Keith?_

His hand slams down on the panel, and the water ceases flowing. Keith's never been an angry person- not really, not _recently_ , but with the combination of sleeplessness and the constant disappointment of searching; anyone would splinter with enough weight.

And Shiro is weight. Shiro is the silver chain around his ankle.

_You're the most-_

Keith digs his fingers into his eyes, pressing against the sting and the pressure and thinks _weight, he's always been weight_ \- not in the bad sense; Shiro isn't baggage to carry around, but something more. So much more.

Keith would give anything to stop sinking. He muddied his boots, with Shiro, and the rest of him followed within months, until he woke up one morning to _pilot error pilot error_ and a chest encased in crushing, heavy dirt.

The comparison felt like a mockery. Keith wasn't the one six feet under.

_Keith, you're the most-_

He curls his fingers, drags himself out of the past. There's work to be done- more searching, at least. Standing there like a fool, talking about chains and dirt like something about this is supposed to make sense- it doesn't, and it never will. Shiro made sure of that when he took a part of Keith with him.

_Go back to sleep,_

_Keith, shh..._

It doesn't make sense.

How could he be angry at someone so gentle? Who _treats_ him so gently, as if he's the most precious thing Shiro's ever held in his hands-

_You're the most-_

Keith slams a palm into the counter again, reaching back with the other to yank his shirt overhead in a fluid motion, angry but not _angry_ , not in the way that he feels he should be. The movement sends a sharp sting through his shoulder, and he almost goes to rip the bandage there off in his frustration- no. _No_ , not when Shiro was the last person to change it for him, to lay it down with such care.

He debates a minute longer, with a glance toward the shower; it'll hurt one way or another, but he's not looking to re-open the wound. The sides pull at his skin a bit as he carefully slides his fingers under the bandage edge, wishing for a brief moment that it was another pair of hands, big and so, so gentle in every brush.

Sliding along his back. Metal knuckles stroking the side of his jaw.

_You're the most important thing I've ever had._

Keith's arms fall back at his side, then shakily against the counter because it wasn't real, it couldn't have been; his sleep-addled brain playing his own mind like a piano in an attempt to sweeten the moment. It was _nothing._

_You're the best thing I've ever had._

It didn't feel like nothing.

It felt like Shiro, like _home_ , waking up in his bed like a lover.

Keith drops his head and berates himself viciously. He needs to stop; stop making this into something it's not. Shiro let him in, to crawl under the covers like Keith crawled under his skin and made a home there, so many years ago, and it's not fair to expect anything else- not to either of them. This much he owes Shiro.

And he still sinks.

He still leans against the counter with one hip, metal cold on his skin but not in the way he _wants_ , and he wonders and regrets and _wonders._ It comes down to touch again -it always has, if he can admit it to himself- and the way it's always been a shade too blatant to write off-

" _Stop_ ," He mutters, sinking further. The ground doesn't swallow him up, a fact that he's all at once grateful for and furious with.

And he can't stop. He presses his head to the cabinet seam and thinks about Shiro's touch.

And it's what he keeps getting caught on; how those hands that would push and shove and wreak havoc to keep him safe are the same ones that cradled his face nights before, when he was a mess of bruises and broken skin and _We're not soldiers Shiro, I'm not a soldier but I've never hurt so bad before-_

Keith is already curled into himself, fingers pressed into his eyes again by the time he notices the ache taking hold of his spine. The star collapsing under his ribs feels cold and hopelessly black and-

The weight of it.

He'll collapse into dust before he's able to shoulder that weight.

**Author's Note:**

> guys I'm begging.... I have no creativity..... any fluff at all, any suggestions @hazelnatcoffee....
> 
> thank Nena for enabling me but ultimately this was my own damn fault


End file.
